


Devil’s Daughter Captured

by winethroughwater



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Roleplay, Sibling Incest, Spellcest, Spellcest Prompt Challenge, Valentine’s Day, together-as-sisters tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 12:09:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17766533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winethroughwater/pseuds/winethroughwater
Summary: It’s Valentine’s Day and Hilda’s turn to choose how they "celebrate." She’s always loved a good bodice-ripper. (Written for together-as-sisters' first fic challenge:  "Hilda and Zelda celebrate Valentine’s Day.”)





	Devil’s Daughter Captured

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine’s Day, all my Spellcest lovelies!

“Where did you even find these?”

 

Two doors and a hallway between them but her sister’s voice carries, not a decibel of disdain lost.

 

“The attic.” Before Zelda can complain about that too, she adds, “I washed everything.   _Twice_.”

 

“Well, I won’t wear _this_.”

 

Satan only knows which piece Zelda has deemed unacceptable.

 

“I never make such a fuss when it’s _your_ turn to choose,” she calls.  To herself, she mutters, “Last year you left me to clean it all up.”

 

She hadn’t made fun of Zelda’s idea then either.  And cooking that nearly naked was a damn sight sillier than what she’s suggested.  More dangerous too. She’d even had to relegate grandmother’s favorite wooden spoon to the back of a drawer because she couldn’t use it _now_.  Not without blushing and imagining the fevered stripes across the backs of Zelda’s thighs. That spoon had great sentimental value.

 

She stands on her tiptoes in front of the mirror and surveys herself critically.

 

It’s _almost_ right.  If she stretched herself out about half a foot.

 

At least the dress is good.  The teal blue compliments her eyes, while the laces up the bodice give her a nice shape.  The neckline is, well, borderline obscene--her breasts are all but spilling out--but accurate according to the covers of her paperbacks.

 

Her heroines are always all heaving bosoms and glowing, fresh faces so she’s forgone almost all her makeup--her cheeks are still pink from the scrubbing--save her mascara because she’d rather go without knickers than mascara.  As today proves. Besides, wearing an ancestor’s dress is one thing, their underwear another.

 

“One laugh and I turn you into a toad.”

 

She grins to her mirror-self—Zelda isn’t _truly_ in a bad mood then or she would have threatened the Cain pit—and hurries out into the hallway with a swish of skirt.

 

“I won’t laugh,” she promises to her sister’s still-closed door.

 

* * *

 

 

Oh, how she isn’t laughing when Zelda appears.

 

Her mouth has gone far too dry for anything approaching a laugh.

 

It looks-- _Zelda looks_ even better than she had imagined when she’d dug the pieces out of old trunks and tailored them as close to her sister’s measurements as she could.

 

Coat and waistcoat, velvet and brocade—those still hang a little large on Zelda’s frame. But the trousers, a buttery black suede, she had taken in just right.

 

Zelda in trousers is utterly sinful.  (She’d miss the stockings, certainly, but Hilda would glut the Dark Lord with the amount of wicked, lascivious thoughts she’d produce if Zelda wore these on a daily basis.)

 

The amber hair up in a knot, a bit like she wore it during deliveries, is too pristine and Hilda makes a mental note to mess it up as soon as possible.

 

Zelda is smirking now and not looking as dangerously self-conscious as she had been when she stepped into the hall.  

 

Hilda closes her mouth.

 

Judging by the wave of raw desire coming off her sister, Zelda approves of her costume too.

 

Zelda stalks towards her in bare feet--Hilda hadn’t been able to find boots small enough to fit--and it matters not one jot that she doesn’t tower above her _quite_ as much as usual.  Zelda is every inch as formidable now as when she is in heels.

 

Zelda leans in.  Her lips brush her ear.

 

“I’ll rip your bodice but I refuse to batter your maidenhead.”

 

The snort comes before she can stop it.  (Lucifer, how she wishes she didn’t always make such an embarrassing sound.)

 

Her eyes widen; she searches Zelda’s face.  Her laughter could signal the end of tonight’s Valentine’s treat, but _surely_ Zelda couldn’t have been serious.

 

Crimson-stained lips twitch.  Hilda breathes again to see the faintest quake of Zelda’s chest.  

 

Zelda laughs outright. (Her sister’s laugh is nothing like hers. It’s elegant and controlled--until it is not.  Exactly like Zelda.)

 

“How can you read such drivel?”

 

“They don’t _actually_ talk like that.”

 

Well, _sometimes_ they do, if she is perfectly honest.  

 

“Near enough.”

 

They’re getting distracted, so when she says, “Not yet,” she clips the words, thickens her accent.

 

Her hands fall to Zelda’s hips to pull her forward but find they are already moving to press her against the wall.

 

The accent rarely fails.  

 

Zelda braces a hand next to Hilda’s head.  

 

Her fingers toy with a blonde curl, tug it and release it with a sigh.

 

“You remind me of my sister.”

 

Hilda’s not quite sure if Zelda’s _playing_ or not.  It’s such a strange thing to say if she is.

 

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” she asks, almost afraid to learn the answer.  With Zelda, even on nights like this one, it is impossible to predict.

 

Zelda studies her face. Her index finger traces the curve of Hilda’s lower lip.

 

It’s difficult not to part her lips and invite Zelda inside—but she’s still waiting on an answer.

 

“The highest of compliments, I assure you.”

 

When Zelda reaches behind her own back beneath the over-sized coat, the movement arches her chest forward and Hilda can see that Zelda has also made some fascinating choices in what _not_ to wear tonight--she’s shocked there isn’t a fancy bustier beneath the waistcoat--can see the shallow valley between her sister’s breasts.  But she’s more mesmerized by clavicles that scream for a row of kisses each.

 

Zelda suddenly brandishes a dagger, tilts its point towards Hilda’s chin.

 

Hilda flinches into the wall.

 

“What are you doing with that?!”  

 

She’s in no way “in character.”  She hadn’t planned to fear for her life.  It wasn’t that kind of evening.

 

Zelda rolls her eyes, pronounces each syllable in, “Verisimilitude.”

 

“What kind of highwayman would be unarmed?” she asks.  She taps the dagger against the laces of Hilda’s dress, almost bored.

 

“A _pirate_.”

 

Zelda looks down at herself.  

 

“This is supposed to be a pirate’s outfit?”

 

“ _Obviously_. There was a hat.”  Which Zelda had chosen not to wear—probably best in hindsight. “And we _are_ on a ship.”

 

“That wasn’t a pirate’s hat.”

 

Hilda is not going to get sidetracked by haberdashery—and not by explaining how she couldn’t possibly have found an actual pirate’s hat in Greendale in February, there not being one conveniently in the attic.

 

Besides, she’s getting particularly peeved that Zelda has obviously not prepared for her role, not given any thought to this.

 

“Did you read any of it?”

 

Zelda literally looks down her nose at her and her taste in literature in the same glance.

 

“I skimmed.  Judiciously.”  

 

She should have known Zelda would half-arse this.

 

Irritated, she crosses her arms over her chest, sets her jaw, and glares at her sister, who just might go to bed with her own hand as her Valentine’s date.

 

She watches Zelda’s gaze drop lower.

 

Zelda wets her lips before tugging Hilda’s arms away, huffs—like she has any right to be the one who’s irritated.

 

Her index finger trails the long line of Hilda’s cleavage as she says, “I’m an unnamed knave who stowed away.”

 

Green eyes, growing darker by the second, fix on her own blue.

 

“After meeting your eyes in the market.”

 

Hilda swallows.

 

“That could work.”

 

It is already starting to work--a flutter low in her belly, her pulse speeding up.

 

Zelda settles against her, presses a kiss to her cheek.  

 

“Is the rest of your flesh so lovely and sunkissed?”

 

“The rest?”  She blushes at the insinuation.  

 

They always blush in the books.

 

 _Hilda_ always blushes when Zelda compliments her.

 

“Here,” Zelda clarifies with a brush of fingers against her thigh, right at the far edge of where her fingertips can reach.  

 

“Here.”  A faint tease of the back of those fingers over the curve of her breast.

 

“Here.” Nails pinch into her bum then are quickly gone.

 

Hilda shivers.

 

“Do I frighten you?”

 

Only about half the time.

 

“No,” she answers and to really sale it, she stands taller, squares her shoulders.

 

Her breasts surge forward as a result.  

 

Zelda’s hand gropes now. She exhales a breath as rough as her grasp on Hilda’s breast.

 

“Your heart is betraying you, beating so fast.”  

 

The blade comes out again.

 

She slips it beneath the laces of her bodice, jerks it upwards, and manages to slice them clean in half like she’d been doing it for years.  She tosses the dagger carelessly down the hall.

 

The heroines would have clutched desperately at the fabric to hide their breasts.

 

Hilda wiggles a bit and Zelda works to get the “ripped” bodice off her shoulders and down her arms.

 

And out of her way.

 

* * *

 

 

She might be blushing now.

 

Zelda hadn’t immediately set upon her.

 

She’d whispered, “Beautiful,” almost to herself and skimmed the sides of her breasts with hesitant ( _couldn’t be_ ) fingers.

 

Either her sister’s acting has improved greatly since they were in school or she’s genuinely a little awestruck by her breasts. (Generally, Zelda handles her tits—Zelda’s word, not hers—like she owns them.)

 

The touches get bolder, caressing and cupping.

 

“Like they were made for my hands.”

 

Zelda knows they were; Hilda doesn’t have to answer her.

 

A nail traces around her nipple, teases over it.  

 

“Mine alone.”

 

Also goes without saying.

 

She’s seconds away from begging for more when the inevitable pinch comes; however, it’s not to a nipple but to the flesh near her waist.

 

“I’m certain you are supposed to put up more resistance,” Zelda taunts as Zelda, though her voice is still a bit funny and low.

 

She leans closer.  Teeth graze her earlobe followed by breath impossibly warm against her throat:  “But maybe you don’t _want_ to resist.”

 

“I should.”  

 

Hilda pushes her away.

 

Zelda yanks her forward.

 

Their mouths meet in the middle.  

 

Hilda doesn’t protest at being walked backwards and ending up where they’d started.

 

That’s what this little game is all about, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

Zelda’s hands wander:  fingertips up the small of her back, palms across the curve where her waist becomes hip.

 

“Why can’t I stop touching you?”

 

“Maybe you’re falling in love,” she offers and receives that Snake in the garden smile in return.

 

She inhales sharply at Zelda’s fingers suddenly against her bare thigh; she’d been pulling her skirt up so slowly that she’d surprised her.

 

“I think you’re a witch.” Zelda’s hand between her thighs is as light and careful as it had been on her breast.  “A sea witch.”

 

Zelda’s touch runs the length of her; a finger dips, releases a flood.

 

“ _Satan_ , Hilda.” Zelda’s face falls against her throat. “You’re so wet.” Her tongue laps at her pulse and Hilda imagines the same sensation elsewhere.

 

She _is_ wet and throbbing and positively gagging for it but that is not what a romantic heroine would say—and she wouldn’t typically say the _gagging_ part out loud even as herself.

 

“I wonder,” Zelda says, “do you taste like the sea, my little witch?”

 

Eyes closed and head thrown back--all the better to lose herself to the flex of her sister’s fingers.

 

* * *

 

 

Hilda’s eyes open again when Zelda’s touch is gone.

 

Her chest hitches when she sees why: Zelda’s fingers, messy and wet, intent.

 

She parts her lips, swipes her tongue over Zelda’s fingers to taste herself.

 

Zelda takes a shuddering breath. Her hips cant forward.

 

She bites down just enough for her teeth to scrape over Zelda’s fingers as she pulls them away.

 

“ _Hmm_?”

 

Is that a question or a growl?

 

Zelda _had_ asked something at some point maybe, though she has no idea what.

 

“Does the cat have your tongue?” Zelda teases, her tongue finding hers, however briefly, when they kiss.

 

“Better than the sea,” Zelda murmurs, then lets her go and walks away so suddenly that she sways after her.

 

* * *

 

 

Hands braced on the banister, Zelda looks out over the rolling waves— _of their foyer_.

 

“What am I to do now that I’ve tasted you?  How am I to ever let you go?”

 

That’s her cue to follow.  

 

“You don’t have to,” she says. She runs her nails up the back of Zelda’s neck, finally mussing her sister’s hair, and leaving goosebumps in her wake.  “You can have all of me.”

 

Zelda rounds on her, spins them to pin her to the banister.

 

“That’s a dangerous offer to make,” she hisses.  “To someone like me.”

 

Hilda remembers how short but effective the fall to the floor is from here.

 

Forgets it entirely as Zelda’s fingers slide inside her.

 

There’s no time to adjust to being filled, only to let herself be carried away by the lunging of Zelda’s fingers.

 

Her breasts move in time with Zelda’s hand.

 

That’s how they always describe it in the novels:  swaying or bouncing, _moving in time_.  More like being jostled.

 

Whatever the word, Zelda has always appreciated it.

 

Zelda clutches at the back of her leg now, a long-standing signal to hitch her thigh higher against Zelda’s own, to let Zelda move deeper.

 

Hilda complies, meets her sister in counterpoint.

 

“Your blushes lie,” Zelda says.

 

Like this, the heel of Zelda’s palm might as well be magic against her clit.

 

“You’re no maiden.”

 

“I am.”

 

She bears down on Zelda’s fingers, hard and hypocritical.  

 

“Maidens don’t fuck--” Zelda rasps.  “Maidens don’t--rut against a stranger’s fingers--in so sweet a fashion.”

 

She kisses Zelda—a reward for her effort.

 

“You’re no stranger.”

 

“I’d recall if we had met before.”

 

The next bit was something about having met in another life.  

 

She doesn’t care.  

 

Her hands reach for the buttons on Zelda’s trousers, only to have her sister’s hips jerk back.

 

“ _No_.  Not yet.”

 

The couples in her novels always reach their peaks in unison.  Hilda herself knows that mutual orgasm is much harder to achieve than the books make out.  She tends to lose most of her manual dexterity when slipping over the edge.

 

“A gentleman always makes sure his lady is satisfied first.”

 

“I thought you were a _knave_.”

 

“Hush, Hildegard.  Let me make you come.”

 

She could do that, especially since Zelda has curled her fingers and is hitting that spot they had discovered long ago.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s Zelda who’s talking now, asking, “How _do_ they talk?” but not waiting for an answer.  

 

“Would I tell you how delicious the pinch of you is around my fingers?”

 

She grips Zelda’s lapels.

 

“Would I compare you to velvet or silk?”

 

She sinks her teeth into Zelda’s collar.

 

“Tell me, sister, would I liken your cunt to _heaven_?”  

 

Blasphemy slipping off Zelda’s tongue and she’s blinded.

 

* * *

 

 

Her knees have yet to hold her steady; she reels against the banister, but Zelda has her, though she teases, “Careful or you’ll fall into the sea and drown.”

 

* * *

 

 

Zelda nods this time, lifts the bottom of the waistcoat out of her way, when Hilda’s fingers set to work on the buttons of her trousers.

 

She slips her hand inside and finds not the lace or silk she expected, just damp curls and Zelda.

 

“ _Thank you_.”  

 

She doesn’t know why she says that or to whom or about what.

 

Zelda’s mouth quirks.

 

“You are most welcome.”  

 

Zelda looks so pleased with herself at having driven her silly.

 

Hilda has an idea.

 

* * *

 

 

Zelda’s fingers circle her wrist, move her hand impatiently.

 

Hilda ignores her.

 

* * *

 

 

While they always reveal themselves to be innately skilled when it comes right down to it, her heroines always need to be _taught_ how to pleasure their lovers.

 

“I haven’t,” Hilda starts.  She looks at the ground instead of Zelda.  “That is--will you show me how to please you?”  

 

She knows Zelda’s answer by the change in her breathing.  

 

The throaty “fuck” she utters is also a clue.

 

* * *

 

 

She’s seen Zelda touch herself before, of course; but there’s something strangely erotic about _not_ being able to see exactly what’s happening.

 

Zelda moves languidly.

 

Every time Hilda's eyes climb back to Zelda’s face, her sister is watching her.

 

Zelda can keep her eyes open during sex longer than anyone she knows--well, longer than she can herself—sometimes right through her orgasm.

 

In her novels, it’s impossible; they are overcome by coming.

 

In the novels, they also go reluctantly to their knees. The heroines, that is. They blush about this too, hesitate.  

 

Hilda falls to her knees like it’s an honor.  She doesn’t blush but her whole body is flushed and hot again.

 

Her hands trail up the back of Zelda’s thighs. Her mouth matches their route across the front. The fabric is soft, but not as soft as her sister’s skin would be, not as warm.

 

Her fingers stroke the backs of Zelda’s knees.

 

They creep up her trousers leg just enough to circle the bone of her ankle.

 

She slides Zelda’s waistcoat up and licks at her lowest rib.

 

Zelda’s fingers tangle in her hair.  

 

There’s nothing languid about the way Zelda is touching herself now.

 

Hilda presses rough kisses against the back of Zelda’s hand, lower where her fingers have gone frantic.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Sister_!”

 

They do not shout _that_ in her novels.

 

More's the pity.

 

* * *

 

 

“Technically this is the part where you would carry me into my room and lay me on the bed to claim me again.”

 

Zelda’s eyes narrow.  

 

Hilda feels her feet leave the ground and shrieks, “Put me down!”

 

Levitation is not romantic—at least not the way Zelda does it.  

 

“Make up your mind.”

 

“I think I can walk there just fine after all.”

 

She takes a step towards her room.

 

Zelda grabs her hand and pulls her in the opposite direction.

 

“The evening is still young. How about I agree to shove you roughly to _my_ bed and ruck up your skirt?”

 

“That could work.”

 

“I could find your pearl again.”

 

Hilda raises an eyebrow. Zelda hadn’t even liked that term during the actual Victorian period.

 

“I told you I skimmed some of it. And that euphemism is especially uncreative if it is in fact from a pirate story.”

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t read a bodice-ripper since junior high. Maybe I remembered enough about how they went.


End file.
